Chapter Twelve

The next morning was a Sunday, and Ty headed to the hotel to say goodbye to Nick and the others. It was time for them to leave, and though Ty hadn't been able to spend much time with them, there was just too much going on for him to feel good about them staying in town. Not to mention the ramifications of his confession. Owen wouldn't speak to him, avoiding him under the auspices of last minute packing. Ty'd had trouble looking Nick in the eye, but he had forced himself to do it, recognizing the same awkwardness in his best friend.

"Ty," Nick said uncomfortably when he pulled Ty aside. "I'm sorry. What I did, it was shitty and selfish, and I wish I could take it back."

"Don't worry about it," Ty told him, wishing Nick would just pretend it had never happened, like so many of the other things they never spoke of.

Nick shook his head. "I just—I need... to tell you this, okay?"

Ty nodded with trepidation, wondering what could be harder for Nick to say than anything that had happened last night.

"I've loved you since the day you sat next to me on the bus to Parris Island," Nick blurted.

Ty blinked at him, unable to do anything more.

"And I was going to tell you when we finished our last tour. I planned it out every night in my head." Ty started to speak, but Nick stopped him. "But then the helo went down. And... what happened to us..."

Ty closed his eyes, immediately assaulted with memories he'd spent years repressing. They hit him like a physical blow. Flashes of chains and dull instruments, peeling plaster in a dark cell, making marks on a ceiling so low he didn't have to stand to reach it.

Nick stopped talking.

Ty opened his eyes to find the same haunted look in Nick's eyes that he could feel seeping through himself.

"I will always be your friend, Ty," Nick practically gasped. They hugged, a tremble going through both of them before they let each other go.

What they had been through together—there was nothing that could break that bond. There was also nothing that could turn that bond into something else, and in that moment, they both knew it.

When it was time for them to catch the shuttle to the airport, they all shook hands and hugged, Owen saying a stiff goodbye instead, and Ty saw them off with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing was resolved there, but Ty knew he would have to deal with it later. Just one or three more personal problems he had to push to the back burner because of his job.

Zane seemed down and didn't have much to say when Ty got home, and for the first time, Ty was too tired to try to reach into his darkness and pull him out. He went to bed early, asleep before Zane fumbled his way under the sheet and wrapped around him.

The next day he headed back to work, something he dreaded for the first time since Jimmy Hathaway's funeral years before.

"Grady, welcome back. I hope you stayed out of trouble—and the press—over the long weekend?" McCoy said as Ty stopped in his office doorway.

Ty nodded, sedate. A bad week had only gotten worse, and he was in no mood to be witty on a Monday morning.

"We've been through all the evidence we could get our hands on, and there's all kinds of paperwork to be done. I had Clancy leave some on your desk. Exciting stuff to come back to, I know," McCoy said, his voice apologetic. "We're having another meeting with Financial Crimes this afternoon to touch base on leads for the combined crimes, and then I have a consult with a team from Counterterrorism."

"Great," Ty said without enthusiasm. He was finding it hard to concentrate or care about work. His partner was still out of commission, and the more time that passed, the more Ty began to fear Zane's blindness might be permanent. On top of that, Ty didn't like to be on the periphery of an investigation that directly involved him. It was stressful to have his fate in someone else's hands, no matter how good they were at their jobs. And then Nick had traipsed in and fucking kissed him, dredging up things he only thought of in his nightmares.

Ty ran his hand through his hair and turned to head for his desk. Maybe paperwork would actually be good for him today.

"Hi, Ty. Mac had me put some... files... Are you okay?" Michelle Clancy asked once he got to the team's pod of desks where she sat with Perrimore, Alston, and Lassiter.

"Yeah," he answered with a curt nod. He sat with a thump and gave the chair a moment to protest being used, then leaned back and rubbed hard at his face.

Clancy paused in his peripheral vision, but thankfully she sat at her desk and got to work instead of keeping after him. "Mac set me up as the liaison with Financial Crimes instead of having them call all over the office, horning in," she said.

"My condolences," Ty grunted.

"He's still trying to keep you and Garrett out of the spotlight. Have you heard from Zane? How is he?" Clancy asked in clear concern.

"He's blind," Ty answered in an almost cruel voice. He looked up at her, not wanting to be nasty to her but knowing he would be if she kept talking. He didn't need the reminder.

Clancy met his eyes, her lips thinned with displeasure, but either she felt the impending meltdown emanating from ten feet away or decided she just didn't want to know. She went back to her paperwork without another word.

The pod worked in heavy silence, unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air and one teammate conspicuously absent. It was a good two hours later, with Ty well into the reams of paperwork, when the call came in.

"We've had another detonation at the Inner Harbor!" McCoy's voice snapped through the quiet room. "Activate bank response protocol!"

The two teams of agents and other support personnel, about thirteen of twenty in the office accounted for, erupted into movement with a purpose. Ty grabbed his windbreaker and shrugged into it as he headed for the stairs with everyone else. The office wasn't really set up for emergency responses like this, but they managed. Vans in the basement were stocked with weapons, tactical gear, and all that fun stuff that usually got people killed. They piled into three vans, heading for three separate banks that had been pinpointed as the most likely targets. All far away from the Inner Harbor.

The bank robbers were trying to divide and conquer like the Allies had in World War II, forcing Germany to fight on two fronts. Any military mind knew that a two-front war was almost impossible to win, and that was what the Baltimore authorities had been fighting.

McCoy had devised a plan of his own in response. He had volunteered members of his own Criminal division team, members not involved in either the emergency response to a bomb threat or to the scene of a bank robbery, and he had formed five special task forces in cooperation with the Maryland Joint Terrorism Task Force, supported by the Baltimore Division's Field Intelligence Group.

The proper response to the next bomb scare would still be seen, but those special teams, made up of a mishmash of agents and cops from different agencies, would respond to pre-selected targets based on where the bomb was.

They got updates about the bombing on the way. Two more stores blown to pieces, several with collateral damage. No warning, no evacuation. Uncounted injuries, and they all held their breath with each announcement, waiting to hear about casualties.

Ty closed his eyes and lowered his head. He'd promised himself and all of Baltimore that they would stop these monsters, but all he'd done was get embroiled in it, making himself a target, making Zane a target, egging the bombers on, and seemingly making the attacks more personal and the attackers more bold.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this was on his shoulders.

The van careened to a stop, sending the agent next to him tumbling against his side. Neither one of them acknowledged it, instead hurrying to open the door and spill out to surround the entrance to the bank.

Following the predetermined plan of action, they fanned out to cover the two entrances and check all vehicles present, and one of the assistant SAICs made the call inside to touch base with the manager before a team moved inside.

The call wasn't answered. It was some kind of miracle, but the team had found the right bank.

Ty knelt behind the wheel of a police cruiser, a city cop beside him, listening over his earpiece for instructions. There was a sudden burst of chatter, and Ty turned, pointing his gun with its scope over the hood of the car at the entrance to the bank. A skinny man in a cheesecloth hood exited the bank, a woman held hostage in front of him, a gun held to her head. The cops surrounding him shouted, but Ty was hearing the words in his ear instead.

"Yellow, do you have a shot?"

"Negative."

"Green?"

"No line of sight."

"Red?"

"Nothing clean."

"Blue?"

Ty squeezed one eye closed, looking down the scope at the bank robber. Looking at the man's trigger finger in his scope. It was resting on the trigger guard. He brought the scope up, checking line of sight to the target's head.

"Affirmative," he murmured in answer.

"Take the shot."

Ty breathed out carefully, taking a moment to ask for forgiveness. Then he squeezed the trigger.

The hooded man's body snapped backward as the bullet struck the shoulder of his gun arm. There was no danger of him squeezing off a shot with his finger on the guard, and they wanted him taken alive. A gruesome spray of blood painted the glass doors behind him, and the bullet impacted the glass, sending tendrils of splintered bulletproof glass outward. The man let out a high-pitched shriek as he bounced on the concrete. The hostage yanked free and ran, leaving the cops and agents with clear shots. If the hooded man raised that gun so much as a millimeter, Ty would take his head off.

But the gun clattered to the ground as the man rolled around on his back, still howling and clutching at his shoulder.

Ty raised his head and watched as agents and police officers surrounded the man. The cop beside Ty gave his shoulder a pat. "Nice shot, brother."

Ty nodded at him, standing to watch as the man was dragged toward the police line to be questioned and unmasked. A call was put in to the bank and was answered immediately. There was no one else in there, they were told. Only one bank robber had been there.

Surely all this wasn't the work of one man? There had been reports of two to three in each robbery, and with the bomb spotter, they had the group pegged for up to four. Ty moved closer to the ambulance, his gun over his shoulder as people parted to let him through. The man was on a stretcher, crying out in pain, a scream so feminine that it sounded almost like a child. The mask was ripped off to reveal his face, and Ty stared in shock.

It was a woman. No, a girl, a goddamn kid, eighteen if she was a day. And she wasn't taking the injury well, sobbing and red-faced, saying over and over that it hurt, calling for her mother.

"Get this," a city cop said, stopping next to Ty. He had the girl's weapon in hand. "It's not even loaded."

"What the hell was she thinking?" the first cop said in disgusted wonder.

Ty shook his head, speechless. Shooting a teenage girl through a sniper's scope had not been on his bucket list. His stomach curled, threatening to send his lunch back up.

"It's a clean shot," the EMT announced. "She'll be fine, but we need to get her moving." They lifted the would-be bank robber up and headed for the ambulance, two cops alongside for the ride.

"Hey," the assistant SAIC said as he stopped at Ty's side. "It was a good shot. Saved her life."

Ty nodded, but he still had to swallow against being sick. He took a step after the stretcher. "Hey," he called to the paramedics. They stopped, looking at him expectantly. The assistant SAIC nodded for them to let him closer. He stepped up to the stretcher and looked down at the girl. Her face was streaked with tears, her blonde hair mussed and bloody from the spray after the high-velocity round hitting her.

"You're that guy from TV," she stuttered at him, still sobbing.

"No. I'm the guy who just shot you," Ty told her, voice hard with anger.

"You aren't supposed to be here," she sobbed hysterically. "You're supposed to be at the other place!"

The paramedics ended the interview before Ty could ask her anything, citing her vitals as too dangerous to continue with the stress. They carted her off as Ty frowned after them, trying to decide what other place she'd meant.

"They got Hannah," Graham told Pierce and Ross as soon as the two boys walked through the door. "They shot her, man."

"Good," Pierce responded succinctly.

"What?"

"She was a dead weight, man. Why do you think I sent her alone?"

Graham stared at his former friend, not believing it. "What about the agents?" he asked, heart in his throat.

Pierce just shook his head, not intending to explain what had happened.

"Pierce! What about your white whale?"

"I said forget him. He's not worth it."

"You said he was Moby Dick."

"Yeah, well, now he's just a dick, and I'm done with him."

"Why?" Graham needled.

"Dude, just drop it," Ross grunted, irritated.

Pierce whirled on him. "We didn't go after those douchebags. We were watching at the bank, okay? Moby Dick is the one who shot Hannah."

Graham frowned as Pierce stormed out. He didn't understand. Pierce had wanted Hannah dead, but he was upset because Agent Grady had been the one to shoot her?

He looked at Ross for some sort of explanation.

"Pierce is scared of him," Ross muttered. "He thinks he had it wrong and he's not Captain Ahab after all."

Graham looked back at the door where Pierce had disappeared. "I think he had it right the first time."

Ty paced through Zane's living room, making figure eights around the coffee table and couch as he kept up a constant undertone of muttering and cursing.

Zane was gone. Just gone.

Ty had gone home first. There had been no signs of struggle, which had made Ty feel a little better. But also no note, no phone call, nothing to let Ty know where Zane had gone, who he was with, or if he was okay. So Ty had come over here on the off chance Zane had tried to walk it or gotten someone to drive him by for clothes or something. And again, nothing. Ty was scared and angry. He didn't like worrying like this. He didn't like the abject terror that came with knowing Zane was practically helpless without his sight. And he definitely didn't like knowing that these kids, these stupid, spoiled psychopathic teenagers who were killing people left and right, had it out for him and Zane.

Standing there in the bank lot, Ty had mulled over the girl's words, trying to decide what she'd meant when she'd said "the other place." He would have suspected she was just rambling, referring to the diversionary bomb. But where were the other three? What had they used her as a diversion for?

It had struck him that they might have intended to come for him, for him or Zane.

He had called, but Zane hadn't answered. On the torturous drive in a Bureau sedan to his row house, he'd tried to tell himself Zane might be in the shower again. It hadn't eased the vise around his chest or the guilt he felt every time the girl's blue eyes flashed through his mind.

Now, he was no longer worried that Zane had been taken. Even blind, Zane would have made a mess if someone had attacked him. That meant he'd left without considering that Ty might freak the fuck out when he found him gone.

And that was possibly worst of all, that after all the crap he'd put up with in the last week, all of himself he'd given and taken, he didn't even warrant a spare thought or simple note before Zane went skipping out the door.

He steamed and stewed another ten minutes and was just about to go out and do something when he heard voices outside the door and then fumbling at the lock.

When the door swung open, Ty stood just off to the side of the door, his gun drawn as he greeted whoever was coming in.

"Jesus!" Special Agent Fred Perrimore swore as he dropped to one knee, one hand going for his gun, his other raised behind him to stop whoever was behind him from crossing the threshold.

"What is it?"

Zane.

"Give me one good reason not to shoot you," Ty growled dangerously to Perrimore.

Perrimore's eyes went big, wide, and white, standing out against his black skin, and he looked over his shoulder and up at Zane, who was frowning. Perrimore returned his eyes to Ty, hands out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. "Because I run interference with BPD?" he tried.

Ty narrowed his eyes and lowered his gun, holstering it slowly. "Good answer," he offered with a nod. His eyes moved to Zane. "Where the fuck have you been?"

Zane raised an eyebrow, uncannily looking right at him even though his eyes were unfocused. He plucked at the sweaty T-shirt visible under his casual winter jacket. "Freddy took me to the gym."

"What's wrong, Perrimore? You can't leave a damn note?" Ty growled.

Perrimore stood up and edged back out the door. "Garrett didn't mention anything about needing to leave a note," he ventured, looking between the two partners.

"I was only gone two hours, and you're supposed to be at work,"

Zane pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I'm not."

"It's not like I could have gotten anywhere on my own."

"Has it escaped your attention that there may be someone trying to kill you?" Ty asked through gritted teeth.

Zane's eyes narrowed in what would have been a glare if he could have aimed it. He reached out and touched Perrimore's arm. "Thanks for the ride."

Perrimore shifted his weight nervously. "Yeah, Garrett, sure thing." He glanced at Ty, who snarled at him wordlessly. "Yeah, I'll just be going, then," Perrimore muttered as he turned and made his retreat.

Zane reached out to touch the door jamb and walked inside, shifting to close the door behind him. He tipped his head, listening for something. Ty stood glaring at him, knowing he should get control of his temper but truly not willing to do it. He'd reached the end of his rope.

"Are you going to say something or just glower at me?" Zane asked. "I went out for a couple hours. I was with a friend, a trained agent who carries a gun. The only way I'd have been safer would have been to be with you."

Ty pressed his lips tightly together and closed his eyes, but it wasn't helping. "I don't care where you go or who you're with. I'm not your goddamned babysitter," he said tightly. "But you've got to take this situation seriously! You've got to be where you say you're going to be when you say you're going to be there! Just because you can't fucking see doesn't mean the rest of the world has come to a halt too!"

"Take the situation seriously," Zane repeated flatly.

"We only caught one of them today, did you know that?"

"Take it fucking seriously?"

"There's no telling where the others are or who they're after!"

Ty kept ranting over him, both of them talking at each other and not actually hearing what the other was saying. Finally Zane shouted above Ty's voice.

"Did you actually hear what bullshit just came out of your mouth? Believe me, I know really damn well how the world is going on without me!"

"And it doesn't matter that I've been bending over backward trying to help you," Ty said angrily. "Doesn't matter that you disappearing would scare the shit out of me?"

Zane grimaced and rubbed at his temple. "Yes, of course it matters, but—"

"But what you want is more important," Ty finished in disgust. Zane shook his head, and Ty glared at him as he felt the weight of the week crashing down on him. "You know what, Zane? I'm done," he said with a wave of his hand. "You want to reconnect with the fucking world, strike out on your own for independence, go do it. But you're gonna do it without me," he grunted as he grabbed up his jacket from the back of the couch and stalked toward the door.

"What the hell crawled up your ass and died? You are totally overreacting!" Zane protested as he reached out, catching Ty's arm by blind luck.

Ty turned and lashed out, catching him right under the chin. Totally surprised, Zane was knocked off balance, and he collapsed backward against the bookshelves, hitting them hard enough to send several books thunking to the floor as he fell with a hard grunt to the thin carpet.

Ty turned to head for the door, shaking his hand and grumbling.

"Ty," Zane said weakly.

"Go to hell," Ty responded without turning around. He grabbed at the doorknob and yanked the front door open.

"Ty," Zane repeated, a real tinge of desperation in his voice. "I think I can see something."

Ty stopped and turned to look at him, frowning. Zane's face was set in a pained wince. He pressed the heel of one hand to his temple as he blinked over and over. Ty cocked his head and watched him, waiting. When Zane looked up, one of his eyes was totally bloodshot, more red than white. He kept blinking like he was facing a bright light.

"Son of a bitch," Ty muttered as he slammed the door shut and stalked past Zane toward the kitchen.

"Get the fuck back over here, you asshole," Zane ground out. "That fucking hurt!"

"I'm calling the doctor," Ty snapped back at him. He snatched up the phone and jabbed at the numbers angrily. Zane didn't growl back; he just held his head in his hands, looking miserable. Ty warred with the instinct to protect that had been in overdrive for a week now and the urge to kick him while he wallowed down there. He wouldn't have placed bets on which instinct would win out.

After some terse snapping, he got one of the doctors on the line, turned back to Zane, and poked him with the end of the phone. "Doctor wants to talk to you," he said in a low voice.

"Bastard," Zane muttered from where he sat on the floor, leaning back against the shelves, covering his eyes with one hand and bracing that arm on his propped-up knee. He fumbled for the receiver. "Yeah," he said into the phone. After a moment he added, "Yeah. I've had a hell of a headache all day, until I went to the gym."

Ty paced, still fuming and unable to stand still.

Apparently the doctor was droning on, explaining what might be happening. "So this is a good thing?" Zane asked after listening. Ty could feel Zane's gaze following him. After a week without it, Ty felt uncomfortably pinned down, and that just made him angrier.

"Okay," Zane said, his tone unsure, and he thumbed off the phone.

"Gonna live?" Ty asked him curtly as he took the phone from him.

Zane turned his head slowly, as if afraid he might be dizzy. "Yeah. Maybe you should have hit me sooner."

"I couldn't agree more." He tossed the phone toward the couch as he moved to the door without another word.

"Ty, wait," Zane called out, his voice pained.

Ty answered by slamming the front door. He thought he should have felt just a little bit guilty. But he didn't.

Zane stalked into his apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. Five hours. Five goddamn hours he'd sat at the hospital for the doctors to look at him for five minutes, a ten-minute CT scan, then a pat on the head and shove out the door. And all he'd been able to stew about was how he'd fucked up so royally with Ty, however unintentional it was.

He shed gear and clothes as he walked through the apartment to the kitchen in his jeans and socks, intent on getting a Coke and then a hot shower. When he yanked open the refrigerator door and saw the untouched boxes and bags from Chiapparelli's, his first instinct was to slam the door shut, yell, and throw... something. But he swallowed on the anger, and though it was really, really close, he made himself grab a can of soda off the shelf and shut the door carefully. He hadn't been this angry in a long time, and it made his head pound, his eyes sting, and, damn it, his heart ache.

Zane slid onto a bar chair and pressed the cold can to his cheek, then his temple, then his forehead, trying to get some relief as he fought the swell of emotions. Upset and anger, obviously. A healthy dose of utterly pathetic gratitude and frantic joy. An aching regret, and an even deeper hurt. The conflict was about to make his head explode.

With a sigh, Zane set down the Coke, and he was about to get up when he saw the small pile of mail sitting forgotten on the far side of the bar. He reached out and dragged it over. Coupons. A church tract. Generic insurance offers. A flier advertising a nearby car-wash grand opening, another announcing a special couples' dinner night out at one of the other prominent Italian restaurants in the area. He unfolded the last one to find only a sheet of paper with messy handwriting.

But it was clearly his name at the top.

Zane silently read the few short lines, and the emotions started bubbling up again, threatening to choke him.

Mr. Garrett, Pierce Sutton is the reason you're blind. He has your truck too. You have to stop him before he kills somebody. Please.

Four days had passed since the teenage girl had been shot outside the bank, and the whirlwind was still churning. The public was equal parts praising the FBI's dedication to keeping Baltimore safe and crucifying the "trigger-happy monster" who'd taken the shot.

That monster just happened to be the same agent who'd become one of the darlings of the media, but no one knew that. And he was missing in action, sent home to lay low yet again until the case was done. He kept thrusting himself in the middle of all the trouble, and Dan McCoy simply couldn't have him around anymore.

McCoy felt sorry for Ty Grady. Usually he was like a cat: he didn't necessarily always land on his feet, but he had the uncanny ability to twist during the fall and at least land on all fours. He just couldn't seem to win on this one, though. He was on all fours, all right, but McCoy didn't think it was voluntary.

So McCoy had sent him packing, sending a different agent several times a day to check up on him. By all accounts he wasn't handling the shooting of the girl well. One agent reported that Ty had actually uttered the phrase "you kids get off my lawn" when the rookie had knocked on his door. McCoy knew that Ty was either messing around with them for shits and giggles or he was truly traumatized. Truth be told, it was probably a combination of the two.

On the plus side, Zane Garrett had been released to light duty by the Bureau doctor late yesterday and was "officially" back in the office. He'd called in the night of the shooting, having found a letter left at his apartment while he was blind, a letter that gave them a name. Fingerprints were no help; whoever had handled the paper didn't have a record, so there was no way to know how the writer had found Zane's apartment. That still bothered McCoy, as well as Zane's team, who had all volunteered to continue the protection detail.

It would have taken a fight to keep Zane out of the office, doctor's orders or not, so McCoy had Zane brought in—his truck was still MIA—sat him down, put his cyber skills to work dredging some more nontraditional sources of information, and kept a close eye on him.

Pierce Sutton turned out to be a kid and therefore in the wind, not at any address his meager records said he might be using and hard to pin down. The search continued, as did other aspects of the investigation, including the one currently on top of the pile on McCoy's desk.

McCoy pushed a button to call for Zane as he perused the file in front of him.

He got an immediate reply. "Garrett."

"Get in here," McCoy grunted as he flipped a page.

He didn't get a verbal answer, but Zane was in his doorway within a minute. He was dressed down, in black jeans and boots with a nondescript blue button-down, pushing the line of what office dress code strictly allowed, and he still looked pretty haggard, hair ruffled and face scruffy. McCoy ignored the break in protocol and beckoned Zane into his office.

"Sit down. I need your help with something."

Zane hesitated for a beat before moving into the office and taking one of the chairs across from him. McCoy looked at him for a moment, then down at the file spread out across his desk. Ty Grady's file. These two were like lightning rods, and any given day, he wasn't sure which one would draw the most voltage.

"You doing okay, Zane?"

Zane snorted quietly. "Better, anyway."

McCoy nodded, looking Zane over critically. Zane's eyes were still bloodshot enough that he could see the red in them from seven feet away, but he decided the answer would do for now. "Have you heard from Grady?"

Zane sat up straighter in his chair and made eye contact. "Not for a few days."

"Neither have I. I've gotten word he's not handling the situation very well. Has his phone off, letting everything go to voice mail. You've heard that he was the one to take the shot at the bank, yes?"

Zane went still. He did that sometimes, McCoy had noticed in the past, usually because it was such a contrast to Ty's incessant twitching. "No," Zane replied, his tone flat. "I only heard they took one person into custody."

McCoy nodded and pushed the file around. "Got her with a sniper rifle. It was an impressive shot, disarmed her but didn't kill her. Still, he's not really okay with shooting a kid, from what my agents are telling me. Anyway, that's not why I brought you in here." He turned the file around on his desk. The pages were covered with thick black ink, lines and lines of redacted information.

"Her?" Zane was now frowning deeply. "A kid?" He glanced down at the file, then back up at McCoy.

McCoy looked at him with some surprise. "You haven't heard any of it? She was seventeen. All we've gotten from her is the ringleader isn't much older than she is and she doesn't know why he's so intent on killing so many people, but he is and she was scared of him. She also hinted to us as she was being wheeled away that he might have it out for you and Ty because you've become the figureheads of the pursuit, so to speak. I'm surprised Grady didn't tell you all this. As soon as he figured it out, he went tearing off to find you, make sure you weren't a collateral target during all the chaos."

Zane looked away, toward McCoy's window. To McCoy's eyes, he looked uncomfortable, which was unusual for the ultra-controlled Zane Garrett. But he'd had a shitty week too. Going blind would throw anyone's emotional equanimity.

"We didn't talk long," Zane finally said. "He had things to do, and I had to go back to UMMC."

McCoy nodded, satisfied with the answer. Who the hell knew what Ty was ever thinking, anyway?

He tapped his finger on the blacked-out file. "I'm trying to see if anything in Grady's file might connect him to this kid, but as you can see, his file is mostly crap. I wanted to ask you if you knew anything that might be relevant."

Zane looked back to the mostly blacked-out paperwork, then up to McCoy. "If that's Grady's file, I don't know that I'll be much more help."

McCoy's brow knitted. "You've never seen his file?"

Zane shook his head just slightly, winced, and stopped the movement with a touch to his temple. "No."

"Huh. Well, you should take it and read up, Garrett. Grady's got to be a damn minefield to walk through without an inkling of what's back there," McCoy grunted as he closed the file and handed it to Zane. "Nothing in there's going to help this investigation."

Zane looked at the file in his hand like he wasn't sure what to do with it, then dropped it lightly on the edge of McCoy's desk. "So there are more of them out there, and they know us. Me and Grady. Possibly where we live. And they're likely out to get us specifically," he summed up, face grim.

"I'd wager if they weren't before, they are now," McCoy told him bluntly.

Zane tipped his head to one side, eyes going unfocused as he thought hard about something. McCoy had seen the man pull together details from disparate case files to create legitimate leads in critical investigations; he wondered just what Zane was chewing on now.

"Where's Grady?" Zane ask abruptly.

McCoy couldn't hide his surprise and confusion. "I don't know. At home, probably. We have someone going around every few hours to keep an eye on him. The last team we tried to sit on him, he actually threatened to shoot them."

"He would," Zane muttered. He stood up. "I need to get up to speed on the contingencies, but I won't last long," he said, waving a hand at his head. "Killer headache."

McCoy nodded, watching Zane curiously. "Don't push yourself. Go on home. I'll have someone come around to check up on you too."

Zane hesitated, apparently choosing his words before saying, "I'm going to stop by and see Ty. We've both had the week from hell."

"Might be a good idea. Maybe you can ease his mind some. It was a clean shot. No one knew she was a kid."

"He did what he had to. What was right," Zane said quietly. "Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt." With that he left the room and, McCoy noticed belatedly, Ty's personnel file.

McCoy grunted as he frowned at the folder. In his opinion, Ty had more on his conscience than the shot he'd taken four days ago. A lot more.

He reached for the file and stowed it in the bottom drawer of his desk, locking it away.